


Pushes

by Nalyra



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:04:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11573886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalyra/pseuds/Nalyra
Summary: Loose continuation of"Touches"Will bears Hannibal's grunt, willingly.





	Pushes

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a totally self indulgent piece of smut and became something else.  
> Still smut though^^.

The first push, when it comes, is always too much. 

He is greedy, his fingertips shaking where they grip my hip, gripping too tight in a strange dichotomy of sensations, prickling on my sweaty skin.

He has devoured me for hours, in something that seems like a ritual now. 

Whispered words after dinner, barely audible, asking for permission. His fingertips, hovering over the soft skin just below my eyes, the heat telling me he is high strung. My fingers, gliding over the cloth of his suit, pulling him near as an answer. 

Breath, shared between us, in something more than a kiss somehow. Wordless, now. 

I close my eyes, instinctually, tilting my head. I hear him moan, the hand on my face dropping down to my throat to feel my pulse, thumb pressing ever so lightly.

His tongue touches my lips and it is my turn to moan, the soft lapping somehow beyond erotic. He licks his way into my mouth and I let him, follow the soft pressure to allow him entry. Allow him control. He groans into my mouth, tongue going deep and I sigh against him, my hands in his lapels tightening to fists. His other hand comes up to rest on my smile, between us, the hot wetness of his mouth devouring me and the heavy weight of his hand burning on our mark grounding me on my seat. 

He withdraws, both our breaths heavy, knowing what is to come, his hunger redirected, caught up in my willingness to bear the grunt. We never talk about it but I know when it is time, when some unsuspecting soul has crossed his path. Free range rude. And yet he cannot… will not do anything to endanger me, to endanger us. Will not endanger what we have here, together. I shiver, feeling the coiled energy within him, the menace just below the skin, clawing to get free.  
My whisper is sharp in the air between us.

„Let it happen, beloved.“

We have come a long way and yet it shatters him, this endearment, every time.  
He bows down, his lips pulling at mine for a long moment, stubble prickling. I push myself up, my hands keeping him connected, taking some control back. I let him go and then open my eyes again, unseeing, before I turn towards the bathroom. I make a show of pulling my shirt off, letting him know that I am alright with this. That I want it, too. 

And how I want.

I drop the shirt on the floor, knowing he will pick it up. Later. 

I can feel his presence still there, on the other side of the room, watching. Stoking the hunger. It will be a long night.

I enter the bath, opening my pants as well, dropping them as I go. Nothing between us tonight. I hear the rustling behind me, knowing he follows my example and I smile, running and testing the water in the shower with my hand. He will want me clean tonight, I just know. 

I step under, the spray a warm embrace, gliding down my skin. I reach for the special shower head, slim and smooth, his hand stopping me. I smile to myself and then bend forward lightly, knowing this will be my first orgasm tonight, his need not selfish, my sounds of enjoyment craved just as my sounds of pain. His hand on my shoulder blades keep me pressed into the wall as I fall over the precipice, prolonging the pleasure mercilessly by aiming just right. I fall to my knees when he withdraws from both places, my body still shuddering with aftershock, the water cleaning away the mess. Leaving me clean and floating, conversely feeling bereft. He puts the shower head away and then embraces me, shushing me, the solid heat of him pressing into me, a stark counterpoint to the almost cold water. 

Grounding. My heart beats hard against his hand and I know he knows I want more. 

Always.

I tell him anyway, just to feel his lips pull into a smile on my back, feel the sharp nip of his teeth in the meat of my shoulder.

„More.“

He turns off the water and then takes my hand, leading me into the bedroom, spreading me out on the towels on the bed. I push my arms up and out, feeling the dimensions, feeling the cloth. Underlined with plastic, the rustling soft. So maybe I will bleed tonight. Or he might use something on me. It doesn’t matter, my heart picking up speed. His hands are warm as they map me out, touching everywhere. He doesn’t pay too much attention to my scars now, concentrating instead on feeling every muscle, every bone. I know he analyzes me right now, checks how my body has healed, is … maintained by his vigilant regimen, sparring and wrestling balancing out the food. I have become quite good at boxing as well, senses in high alert, filling in for the missing one. 

His hands leave me for a moment and then I hear a bottle uncapped, the low, splashing gulp of oil being poured into hands heard just before the squirt of wet rubbing hands. I hum and he chuckles, the darkness in his tone almost hidden. His hands return, warm, kneading, pressing, repeating their journey. I turn over unbidden after a while, his hands spreading and touching unashamedly, never quite there. By the time he reaches my shoulder blades I am sweaty again, oil and salt swimming in the dips of my back. He licks them off, tongue trailing down for just a moment. I grit my teeth in a feral smile, knowing we are not there yet. 

The first blow is by hand, accompanied by a sigh. I do not know what he envisions in these moments, but I, I try to envision him, transferring his darkness into something I am able to endure, here, now. A pulsing, black red fog of need, dealing out the excess pain. 

He is always in pain these days, the shot wound’s legacy, nerve endings frayed.

He uses his teeth tonight, sharp enough to wound, after. I have lost my sense of time. He eats my sounds, the sounds I give him, freely. I know whatever he does is only superficial, will heal. He likes the unmarred canvas as much as he likes his marks of ownership. I let myself fall into the feeling of being claimed, again, allow him to move me as he will, allow him to see how my body responds.

He goes down on me with a sob and light explodes in my darkness.

I drift a while, agonized with oversensitivity, where he refuses to let me go. The feeling is strangely static, keeping my muscles tense and my mind mute, uncaring of anything else but his mouth, tongue caressing. 

A gift.

Reality returns when he leaves me, refocusing sharply when he crawls up and kisses me, my tongue chasing his now, chasing myself, chasing us. 

My grip on him is merciless, forcing him to move as I will, his body on mine blanketing. My left hand moves back over the Verger mark, scars faded by now and interlaced with scratch marks I have put there, on our first time. 

Destroying it.

He belongs to me now.

He turns me so he can spoon up behind me, one hand over my heart, the other preparing me, just enough. He needs the edge and I crave it, desperately.

The first push, when it comes, is an epiphany.

I have saved some life tonight, by giving the devil his due. My devil. And I soar, buffeted on love and helpless devotion, carried on low thrumming ecstasy, easily kept in the cage of his arms.


End file.
